


Rejection

by quittersneverwin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quittersneverwin/pseuds/quittersneverwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras admits something that Grantaire can't allow himself to believe</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rejection

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my maru for proofreading this

Enjolras dragged himself up from the dull haze of sleep to be pleasantly surprised by a comforting weight across his chest. Grantaire was splayed - not gracefully - across his body, his bare back rising and falling in a slow rhythm, one of his hands gripping to Enjolras’ t-shirt. The latter’s hands were both circling around the waist of the former.

This, combined with the golden glow filling the peaceful, paint-splattered room made Enjolras smile gently to himself. The man on top of him was by no means perfect: he drank too much, he had a short temper, and he didn’t seem to see the good in most things. Yet, he was passionate under all his cynicism and he made damn sure to bring Enjolras down to earth. Besides, despite the artist’s failings, there was nothing that would make Enjolras ever even debate changing a single thing about him.

Enjolras was pulled from his musings by a hitch in Grantaire’s breath which told him that the drink in his bloodstream was finally beginning to lose its battle against consciousness and he was waking up. Enjolras caught a sight of brilliant blue eyes from under thick brown eyelashes and he smiled. “Morning, sleepy head,” he whispered and Grantaire moaned in response, pulling himself further up the bed so his curls tickled Enjolras’ chin.

Eventually Grantaire seemed to deem himself decently awake to pull himself the rest of the way up the bed. His face was now only inches away from Enjolras’, their hands almost impossibly entwined on the sheets between them. “G’morning,” came the much awaited reply, along with a lazy kiss pressed to Enjolras’ lips.

Not being one to ever face the morning quickly, Grantaire buried his face in the blonde curls in front of him. This simple sign of affection sparked something in Enjolras and, before he could control himself, he blurted out, “I love you.”

He had wanted to keep those words for some embarrassingly romantic date but, to be perfectly honest, now seemed as good a time as any for him to have said it. He was utterly content with his feelings and couldn’t remember ever being happier.

Grantaire, however, did not have the expected reaction. He raised his head just far enough for a piercing glare to seep through his eyelashes. “What did you just say?” The words were cold, angry, and not at all how they should have sounded.

Enjolras didn’t know what to do; he had been completely thrown off by this aggression. “I…I love you?” His voice wavered uncertainly.

Grantaire rolled suddenly and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Enjolras. He put his head down and ran his hands through his dark curls. His shoulders began to move in a strange, erratic rhythm. With a stab of horror, Enjolras realised this was because Grantaire was crying. Guilt washed through him and he moved to comfort his fried. “R,” He placed what he hoped would be a comforting hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “What’s up? Did I say something wrong?” Grantaire didn’t seem to acknowledge his many apologies.

Enjolras began to hear his tone become more frantic in his attempts to reach Grantaire, the latter stood suddenly and crossed the room. As he pulled a t-shirt over his head he turned to Enjolras with a scowl. “How could you ever love me? I’m a hideous drunken wretch.” Enjolras went to deny this statement but he was cut off. “Please, just don’t. I need neither your hope nor your pity.” And, with that, Grantaire turned and stormed out of the room.

Blinded by tears, Enjolras stumbled in an attempt to follow his friend but, since the room was littered with clothes and he could not see, he only made it a few steps before he collapsed to the ground.

Enjolras did not know how long he lay there, sobs ripping through him, simply hating himself. Hating how he had spoiled such a perfect morning. Hating how he had upset Grantaire. Most of all, hating how he had ever assumed that this perfect, artistic, funny man could ever love a selfish, irritable idiot such as himself.

Warm hands clasped his shoulders and he was gently guided into a sitting position against the wall. Pale, soft hands wiped away the tears still clinging to his cheeks. Slowly, Grantaire came into focus, straddling Enjolras’ legs, his face close enough that Enjolras could clearly tell that Grantaire was doing everything to disguise the fact that he had been crying.

“How could you ever love an idiot like me?” His voice was gentle and bore only a sliver of the harshness that had been there before. 

“Quite easily.” Came Enjolras’ reply, his voice thin and watery.

Before he could properly register what was happening, Grantaire had pulled him into a rough, urgent kiss. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile. Maybe today wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> if you have any feedback please let me know thank


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